


Eroticism

by Breakthefixed



Series: Death and Sensuality [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Bottom Will, Cannibalistic Fantasies, Dissection, Emotional Manipulation, Fingering, Glove Kink, Gore, Have I just invented a tag for that? lmao, I was possessed when I wrote this, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, Medical Kink, Organ Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Hannibal, or actually Satan as someone pointed out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 04:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7744051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breakthefixed/pseuds/Breakthefixed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will has never had a fetish for surgical gloves, nor for doctors or medical environment in itself. Before knowing Hannibal he frequented a girl who worked in a hospital and, when he had been shot in the shoulder, she took care of him; nevertheless that had solely raised in him the authentic affection he felt for her - not that he didn’t desire her sexually, that in other circumstances. Even the sexualized medical fantasy pornography didn’t succeed in affecting him.</p>
<p>And yet, the beginning of an erection that was forming between Will's legs and made the trousers of the black suit feel tighter, was telling a very different story.</p>
<p>That’s the reason why Will likes Hannibal so much: he makes every person he affects in conflict with the intimate parts of themselves, subverting also the most durable and visceral beliefs and leaving one vulnerable, naked. It’s utterly terrifying, but if Will is able to endure the cleaning of his innermost thoughts and feelings to become aware of himself, on the other side, maybe, there will be the sirens’ call of ecstasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eroticism

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvelynFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvelynFire/gifts).



> Huge thanks to EvelynFire who beta-read this, I had to dedicate this to you for all the work you have done <3

**I. ******

The last bloodied cloth falls carelessly to the ground as old arrangements after a great play, joining all the others that shared the same fate before that Will’s thorax and shoulder were surrounded with clean bandages.

It’s a quite shallow laceration the now washed and thoroughly disinfected wound that Francis Dolarhyde left on Will’s right cheek; something that, although stupendous in its uncommon way, doesn’t succeed in erasing the expression of genuine disappointment on Hannibal’s face.

Will isn’t sure to what his reaction is due. Perhaps it’s because the scar that remains will be an imperfect imitation of the wide smile that Hannibal has given him. Or, more likely, it’s because they weren’t his hands, the ones that stained with the blood that he himself prevented from flourishing from the wound.

He could use that well-founded insinuation to provoke him to get marked again, Will reflects absentmindedly, following every move of the agile body of the other man while that one raises himself from the stool to wash his hand and so prepare the syringe. His mind is quickly filled with images of years before when he couldn’t help but submit himself to the linoleum knife working its way down his abdomen, consenting to that act of reluctant intimacy and, when, in a hospital room, he grazed reverently the bandages placed on the wound. He had almost believed that, if he had uncovered his abdomen in that very same moment, he would still have found the blade of the weapon inside him, such had been the intensity with which Hannibal had penetrated his body.

He swallows hard. He can’t go further. Rather, it’s healthier that, as the needle introduced into the bottle, that stream of thought slip into the darkest recesses of his mind palace. The ones in which he doesn’t dare to enter, worried to unleash all the evils of the world for a simple impulse of curiosity.

“A mix of local anesthetic and Propofol” Hannibal informs Will on the content of the vial with the same clinic tone that he used with his patients. “It won’t let you feel the needle or the subsequent pull of the sutures and it will dull your uneasiness” He withdraws the plunger of the syringe to the line indicating the amount he needs to draw up and taps gently the barrel, removing the few air bubbles trapped in the medication.

Will tilts his face a bit to facilitate access to the interested zone, stays still but at the same time relaxed. When Hannibal performs the injection on the skin surrounding the stab wound, a sigh leaves Will’s lips at the feeling of mild burning generated by the introduced substance.

It isn’t long before it fades away; a sign of the start of the effect of the anesthetic. Will doesn’t give Hannibal any information about it; it’s not necessary given that between them, there is an ancestral connection as there is one between particles of the quantum entanglement that can interact over any distance.

He doesn’t have to assume a position of control at all, now that Hannibal slips a pair of latex gloves on his beautiful hands with slowness, ostentation. In this occasion he is solely pushed by the need to heal him and bring him back to health. It makes Will feel safe, as it only used to do spending time on the boat with his father and venture into the water to detach himself from the turbulent emotions of the land, although tranquility is the last thing that everyone would associate to a spirit that is so destructive - After all good and evil do really have the same face.

And Will has understood very well the way Hannibal unites in his being, the perfect tension between a human form and a divine nature, opposite realities. He has understood very well the way sacred and profane in his behaviors aren’t anymore a simple dichotomy but become two different angles from which the same masterpiece could be admired.

In fact, whereas Will in the past considered loathsome all the crimes committed by Hannibal, now that he has gone deeper, deep enough to incorporate them in himself, he starts recognizing their holiness and beauty, surrendering a bit to the temptation that its creator has always carried out, but that had been ignored until this moment because of limiting moral judgments.

This is why any gesture that Hannibal executes to who he has decided to include in his life creates results that are incredibly erotic. Erotic as the way he places one of his gloved hands on Will's face, caresses and sustains it, when he starts putting the first suture.

There is a particular moment in which his fingers brush Will’s mouth, an unusual touch that is too prolonged and intense and attentive to be accidental. Because of his position, he can’t suppress a light sound that is suspended between a moan and a sigh.

When it happens a second and a third consecutive time, the act has already lost any trace of casual innocence and the sensation, from almost indifferent and then slightly interesting, has become more exciting than the touch of the bare skin could have. If only the vision of the man in front of him, as a doctor again and with his eyes darker than usual, wasn’t as appealing as the provoked sensations, Will would let his eyelids come down to focus on nothing but the last ones.

He entertains the inviting possibility of deepened contact. It would just take a unique, simple movement of his mouth to introduce in it the gloved fingers. And from there he would suck them in a minute, absconding the orders imposed by Hannibal that, in a more domineering position would not lose his composure. This time to leave his lips is a high and genuine moan that could not be mistaken with something else.

Will has never had a fetish for surgical gloves, nor for doctors or medical environment in itself. Before knowing Hannibal he frequented a girl who worked in a hospital and, when he had been shot in the shoulder, she took care of him; nevertheless that had solely raised in him the authentic affection he felt for her - not that he didn’t desire her sexually, that in other circumstances. Even the sexualized medical fantasy pornography didn’t succeed in affecting him.

And yet, the beginning of an erection that was forming between Will's legs and made the trousers of the black suit feel tighter, was telling a very different story.

That’s the reason why Will likes Hannibal so much: he makes every person he affects in conflict with the intimate parts of themselves, subverting also the most durable and visceral beliefs and leaving one vulnerable, naked. It’s utterly terrifying, but if Will is able to endure the cleaning of his innermost thoughts and feelings to become aware of himself, on the other side, maybe, there will be the sirens’ call of ecstasy.

Then he will have simply to wait until the end of the surgery, sickened by his desire that once repelled will only be aroused more, the lower abdomen that will stiffen until becoming extremely insufferable every time that the needle enters and exits from his skin and Hannibal’s hands will direct new attentions to Will’s face.

(”I’m tired” it’s the less plausible excuse ever, he already knows that he will pretend to sleep while Hannibal is in the next room. “Goodnight Will”, The other man just answers, merely satisfied with the numerous events that fill the first pages of their new life.)

***

**II. ******

“Hello Will, please come in”

Hannibal is wearing, though incredibly simple for him, light blue scrub attire and cap when Will crosses the threshold of the basement which is arranged like an operation theater for their games' sake. He is giving Will his straight and vigorous back, working with commitment with something on the bedside table that Will can’t guess about from his position.

However, his heart has leapt in his throat—pounding heavily against his bones, sticky beneath his skin—because of the eeriness and insecurity that, together with some undeniable seductiveness, transpires from it. Almost as if he had broken in to find him finishing a murder or cooking elegantly his victim’s organs and, despite knowing that what he is doing is morally wrong, for some reason it doesn’t feel bad at all.

Will rushes head-first in the unknown, taking three or two steps towards him.

Only then, when he is laying on his side, he is able to see Hannibal’s gloved hands raising a scalpel from the tray filled with glistening tools on absorbent cloth to sanitize it by alcohol and cotton, with the very same attention and love with which he grazes the air next to his theremin and oh, Will has just woke up after a restless sleep full of expectancies but now his senses are possibly more stirred than ever.

“As I finish preparing, undress yourself completely. It will take only a couple of minutes” Hannibal continues, his voice unstressed and white as if it was made of light. The four walls, the furniture full of medical equipment, and the bed of that ethereal world which is controlled by the fallen angel, a sort of Dionysus or Hades that represents life force as well as the underworld.

His collected and fix gaze is on Will’s face where he founds an opposite reaction. Understandably, given that Hannibal won’t touch Will at all for this moment, preferring to observe him while he becomes more vulnerable, more submissive.

Indeed, not only is Will undressing himself physically, removing first the gray t-shirt of the pajamas and then his turquoise short pants on a more subconscious level, Will is destroying without any hesitation the structure of his own, until now closed being. Communication, revelation of the search of a totality beyond inflection on itself and of communion with the sacred.

Undressing in front of a medical professional that has the highest level of power over man, it triggers even more imbalance and disorder and pulls him out of a condition of the bodies corresponding to the mastery of his lasting and fragmentary essence, in order to substitute his isolation with a deep feeling of continuity that in origin was present and now is missing completely.

It’s exactly for the nostalgia of such continuous being that he aches for these erotic acts.

“Lay down on the bed now.” The words are accompanied by his hand that, having put down the immaculate tool, points firmly at the bed in front of him. There are four leather limb restraints on its sides which are an element Will has insisted on, which are there just for erotic purposes.

“Of course, it's not the first time that I have heard this”

The laugh that leaves Will’s lips is interrupted by the narrow look of the other man, head tilted, muscles twitching with adrenaline in a way that it would make the air separating them charged with electricity as if it was the moment before lightning would strike.

No, it won’t, because, even if that look is the one he has before killing someone, he is quite sure that he won’t dare to ruin their play.

Or at least for the moment, a man that has an entire Rolodex with the names of everybody that has been rude to him will have plenty of time to use the pretext of that discourtesy to punish his bratty lover.

“Okay then” It’s with quick, feline movements that Will gets on the side opposite to Hannibal's one, the bed and the bedside table between them, he sits and then lays down. The leather of the bed is gelid against his bare skin, a chill pricking up his spine, more for the unbeatable dominance in his lover's carriage and gestures than for the cold.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a few seconds to embrace the darkness.

When he opens them again, Hannibal is now above him, the yellowish surgical lamps emphasizing his sublime, sharp, god-like beauty and creating a detachment between him, in a transcendental dimension, and the observer as the one of Byzantine religious depictions. Will blinks at him in awe, all gleaming smile and pretty eyes.

A sigh, Hannibal’s surgical gloves are pulled off with a quick purposeful snap. His hands—the ones that have now touched Will a thousand times, the answer to his unstoppable prayer, housing sacred temples—hold each one of Will’s shaking wrists to slowly wrap the leather around them, securing the hook and the loop fastener, feeding the wrist strap and finally adjusting the bands to the frame of the bed. Not enough to hurt and compromise safety, not enough to allow much movement or freedom either.

Then Will's ankles are next, fastened in the same way after Hannibal's hands have spread Will’s legs, unveiling his hard-on.

It’s exactly like this, Will reasons, that his victims must feel before being touched by the back of the hand of God, by Satan himself. In their extreme danger, they can convey the immensity and, in a way, its sacredness.

A catheter from the cart at the head of the operating table is slipped in Will's arm and, subsequently, an IV filled with only a local anesthesia (even if a general one or at least the use of some sedative drugs would have been greatly advised) to not spoil Will's experience at all.

“What are you going to do to me…” Will asks, a worry in his voice that is just for show as the way he squirms to try to get free, even if aware of its futility, the restraints moving lightly in response and then, after a brief pause “… Doctor Lecter?” he finally adds, flirty, twinkling and savoring every one of the few steps the tip of his tongue is taking, down the palate and on the teeth, to pronounce the formal name that he resumes for this particular situation. In spite of that, it isn't equally true for using in bed a name that is not his birth one, having Will understood very early how much Hannibal is turned on when he calls him “Daddy” to beg, whether it is for a fuck or for anything else.

Delight, arousal and amazement that he didn’t anticipate his boy would do this, but had intimately hoped it, while with a same exaggerated smack, he slips on a new pair of gloves.

“With this scalpel, I’ll cut you from the lateral end of your clavicles to your pelvic bone”

Will watches the light from the lamp dance on the steel in Hannibal's hand once the named tool is put under his eyes, basking into the apparent warmth of it.

Hannibal draws the line as it was described with the flat part of the blade on Will's skin, both to show what he is going to do and tease and to admire for the last time the canvas whose purity has been corrupted by the scar on the abdomen. No, innocence isn't something that belongs to Will. They have both the smell that will diffuse itself in the room, overpowering the already present clinical one: the sharp and warm scent of blood and perversion.

His devotion for Hannibal prevents Will from saying even a word. Too touched by the way he is willing to do anything for his remarkable boy and his medical kink that he doesn't have to explain or justify to him, performing the surgery exactly as it was exactly required last night—he could even control all the actions of the scene but it's Will, the one that has set all the parameters and boundaries that will be naturally respected by the other, rendering the use of safewords insignificant despite the unsafeness of their play. 

And Will trusts him and loves him, he loves him too, he has never done it so much.

Within a few minutes, when Will has stopped feeling his legs, Hannibal ties the straps of a surgical mask behind his head, clothing himself even more and increasing the asymmetry of their statuses, and places the blade in said position.

So he starts sinking in, deep enough to reach the hypodermis. 

Because in the end, eroticism is a violence; the sexual act, in a room where it regains its ancestral value, a perfect simulacrum of ritual sacrifice that deprives the victim of his limited character, revealing the sacred. And here comes again the savage flesh-eating terror of someone who is concerned about human sacrifice and the dissection and dismemberment of a men, an individual. In the same way, the sexual intercourse will dissolve and fuse both of their essences.

There is a stirring in between Will's legs, only at sight of the skilled hands of the man moving towards his chest. Warm and coppery-scented blood starts spilling, cascading on his body in a such perfect way that it seems natural, and with it, every one of Will’s thoughts that, once shared, will never be his again but rather, it will become Hannibal’s and merge with his forever or vanish into nothingness. 

Of course he is shaken, unquiet, phrenetic. Although he doesn't feel pain at all, tears are swelling in his eyes. He can't breathe. And still, his lips part on a grin as he moans, still, he takes all of his wound, as though it has always existed and he was born uniquely to incarnate it. But at the thin boundary of that, there is again pure seductiveness, and as soon as Hannibal raises the blade, he reaches the side of the abyss where he is driven out of his senses.

Hannibal places the scalpel on the acromial end of the opposite clavicle and repeats what he has done on the other side to produce a symmetrical landslide of blood, inviting fear and dislocation to dance hand in hand another time.

Lastly, he settles on the point where the two lines meet to trace a vertical line that cuts across the smile on the abdomen and ends immediately on the pelvic region, before resting to caress with his eyes awaken by beauty, that bewildering contrast of colors and tissues.

His Y-shaped cut is surgically flawless: his ability in handling knives isn’t nearly compromised by the hard and always stiffening erection that he has the pants of the uniform. It's something that one as to be proud of, indeed.

Not enough, every atom of Will's body basically screams. He can’t stay still, gasps frantically, and starts to abscond the movements of the blade as long as possible, wanting to be fucked hard with it, leaving Hannibal wonder if one day he would let himself die during sex, whether it is for the pool of blood he has started to produce at any stab or for choking. He would pass away poetically. And desired. In his eyes, as eternal as a butterfly in a glass case, the apparition of the loved man representing the sense of all existing things.

He is denied this, by all means, the blade removed as fast as it has been placed on his body, staining Hannibal's arm and then the absorbent cloth where it is put back on, making Will stop to moan and instead groan in utter frustration.

“Don’t try to move again, relax and breathe deep and slowly, you are only making yourself bleed more, Will” Incredibly serious, truly worried but extremely placid, Hannibal lowers his mask, and breaks their shared silence, leaning more over Will and establishing eye contact to assure the clear reception of his message. “If you can't restrain yourself, I'll be compelled to interrupt everything I'm doing now and bandage you”

Will’s breath doesn't ease yet, it shudders and tilts, hitches and breaks, though he manages to regulate it, inhaling and exhaling ten even times.

Hannibal rewards him with a quick but deep kiss, yielding to the temptation of Will’s proximity and the latter idly exchanges it, loving the way it tastes like another wound, tenderness preceding cruelty; trying not to squirm despite desiring to feel his lover's cock rub against his own and more of everything.

But something better this way comes. It's merely a matter of waiting.

“This is not very professional, isn't it, Doctor?” When their mouths have parted with a last obscene moan, Will jokes.

“When I have ever been that, when it comes to you?” Hannibal hums, raising himself slowly.

At that, the scar on Will's cheek mangles the wide grin cutting in his face. It doesn't last long: it is soon swallowed by the depth of Hannibal's gaze.

“With this bigger blade I’ll separate skin from rib bone” Hannibal proceeds, showing him the new tool, raising the mask again and starting to peel all the tissue away. Ribcage and intercostal muscles are fully exposed, lungs slowly expanding and contracting, heart fluttering quickly and, as he employs the cutting edge on the lower part of his body, the cradled organs in his abdominal cavity.

“Tell me…” Will starts, his voice a merely audible, panting, high-pitched, sigh. “Tell me, what do you see, please”

“I see your porcelain organs in the abdominal cavity, liver as decorated with lilies and intestine with tulips, marvelous boy”

Will has to bite his lips to prevent himself from using bad language or even the Lord's name in vain, respecting so the rule that Hannibal has established for their intercourse but that Will didn't loose the chance to disregard, most of the times on purpose.

Once the second blade his rested on the tray too, Hannibal finally reaches Will’s insides with his hands, determined to mirror the way he has penetrated his head in those years, left an eternal trace behind him, except that this time it is not a violation at all. To push his actions, instead, there is a violence that is at the core of the erotic act and that, as murder does in a bigger degree, jerks one out of their interior and being, allowing him to come closer to the inebriating totality of the self.

In fact, Will resembles the Ecstasy of St. Teresa in every possible way. Head thrown back, eyes rolled for the distant feeling of fingertips caressing, as delicate as if they were touching a woman's neck, the surface of the liver and feeling every expansion of it and spreading over the protruding stomach and spleen and following every contour of the colon to the appendix and digging into the very long twist of gut to hold in the palm of his hands each of its regions.

“Look at me” Hannibal orders him, holding his chin with his left hand to lower it. Will struggles to do it, even when Hannibal has half of his arm sunk in his cavity to reach the gallbladder, producing a scream from Will, the other hand around his corresponding hip to hold his body in place, strongly enough to leave bruises that will remain for days.

“Will you ever take anything from me? Or simply show them to me?” He inquires as Hannibal retreats his hand only to push three of his fingers in the life dwelling his cavity, withdrawing them again slowly, pushing and withdrawing them again. The possibility of seeing Hannibal hold his entrails, one after another, up in front of his eyes as life goes out of him or even prepare some of them for their next dinner, demonstrating him how he doesn't fear the most vulnerable part of himself, brings him even closer to come.

“Not today, or in the next days. This time I wanted to unveil your truest self.” He has already succeeded in it, indeed, making Will abandon his social mask and totally integrate the shadow in his consciousness, avoiding to suppress the best part of himself. But he has delved further: a new balance, a reconciliation, between the ever-changing accepted and rejected facets, between all of his contradictory impulses, was made, leading Will to the transcendence within himself.

There are a few other thrusts of fingers and there is then a more intense, circular rubbing of the main organs.

“How do you feel, remarkable boy?”

“Thirsty” He breathes out in a groan and, even if he isn't able to see the lower part of the other man's face, he is sure that he is authentically smiling. His image blurs from mad doctor, murderer and fierce god to caring lover again.

“Free me, Doctor Lecter, please”

Hannibal doesn’t fear that Will would escape, bringing irreparable damage to himself, or try to attack him as a normal patient could. That wouldn't make sense at all. Will's intentions, as he has clearly understood, are totally another thing.

“I won’t let you touch yourself now, Will.” He points out, after taking a deep breath to restrain himself, sounding so calm and agreeable that it makes Will's body tense more. “Besides, you have really misbehaved, but you know, your doctor is merciful and will let you take his cock anyway.”

Unconcerned with removing his gloves again, Hannibal lowers his now bloodied scrub pants and boxers down, just enough to free his erection, slicked with pre-cum. A relaxed sigh leaving his now uncovered mouth, Will licks obscenely his lips in response, gesture that Hannibal hasn't surely missed.

Hannibal climbs on the bed to have access to Will's longing body.

It's with a quick and violent push, that he submerges his hard prick into the new hole he has opened for himself.

Will makes a last, sharp sound, ending in a moan before entering into Emptiness. He isn't aware of being awake and breathing nor of passing away, he isn't aware of the thrusts in his cavity that have now increased in speed and violence, he isn't aware of Hannibal's hands, now both holding him in place, mouth kissing every available portion of his skin and the praises spilling from it. He isn't aware of time and of space, ending to be living a limited event.

In that divine madness, he seems to perceive one hand, having released its grip, slipping under his ribcage and caressing his heart to feel how his heartbeat has speed up as he gets properly fucked. 

And then he is climaxing, with a jerk forward and no previous warning. He feels his copious cum spill out with the blood, both leaving him extremely drained, dizzy and lightheaded.

It's the peace of mind, it is freedom.

It's beautiful.

Hannibal pulls himself out, after catching Will's mouth into a bloody kiss so that he can taste himself, and after a few thrusts of his gloved hand—both selfishness and necessity to further concentrate guide his actions—his body gives in too.

“Why did you let me do this to you?” He finally asks, faking visceral worry and regret. “Now I must take care of you, Will”

Will simply nods, too exhausted and paradoxically in need of the man who has hurt and is hurting him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a Georges Bataille's essay that I loved reading and I have hinted at in some parts of the story.


End file.
